


To The River I Am Going

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Character of Faith, Family, Gods, Hearing Voices, Multi, Polyamory, Prayer, Prophetic Visions, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:25:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gods, Christian and Norse, have spoken to Athelstan for as long as he can remember. As a monk, it had driven him to despair, as a Norseman he gained a deeper understanding and found peace and power. Now his gift steadies him and helps him help those that he now considers family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To The River I Am Going

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from the Christian worship song 'The River' by Brian Doerksen. This fic contains spoilers for season two.

 

 

Athelstan hurried. His gaze searched the crowds of injured people; no, it looked as though Rollo wasn't among them so he hadn’t been moved. Good. Athelstan quickened his pace and indeed found Rollo where he'd left him, his legs still crushed and healing, his eyes still dark with distrust and hatred. Athelstan sighed quietly and then stepped forward.

 

“A deal has been made. You will go back to Kattegat.”

 

Shades of weary pained surprise flittered through Rollo’s expression. Of course he was still unhappy; he was a warrior who had been denied Valhalla. A crippled man’s survival was not celebrated by the Norse people. But he lived still; Siggy and Ragnar would be pleased. Athelstan was too, he let out a stream of Norse, quietly thanking God for guiding him to Rollo’s body on the battlefield, then he thanked Odin for sending the ravens, for their protection of Rollo.

 

One of Rollo’s shaky weak hands fumbled for Athelstan’s wrist. Athelstan let himself be tugged closer, his face open. Rollo stared at him, desperation and anger both filling his expression. Athelstan waited, the voices were guiding him as they always had done. With his free hand he touched the cross that hung in front of his robes and thanked Odin again.

 

“Your strength will return,” he said a little louder. “You will swing a sword again.”

 

Rollo coughed out something derisive. Athelstan gripped his wrist hard in return and then pressed it to his own forehead, like a benediction or firm submission to a man higher in status. Rollo looked taken aback, still in so much pain, still so empty and frustrated.

 

“You’re learning to be a wise man, remember?”

 

At Athelstan’s words, Rollo’s expression sharpened with confusion and suspicion, shaking him from his blur of self-pity. It was good to see, pity didn't suit Rollo.

 

“How do you know these things?”

 

Athelstan dipped closer and for a moment, his eyes _gleamed_ and his voice roughened. “The gods talk and I listen.”

 

*

 

“He truly is Ragnar Lothbrok’s brother?”

 

Aethelwulf didn’t sound completely disbelieving but he was no doubt struggling to see any similarities between the dark-haired brute of a man who lay injured and groaning before him and the shorter charismatic fair-haired Ragnar. Athelstan chuckled and helped Rollo drink more water, ignoring the man’s request for ale.

 

“They are like night and day in temperament and desire, but they do share blood.”

 

Aethelwulf eyed Rollo like one might eye a wounded wolf, a savage animal to be wary of despite the fact it had been grievously injured. He shook his head at Athelstan’s ministrations.

 

“It’s true that he tried to kill you?”

 

It seemed that Aethelwulf had spies moving amongst the brothers that were tending to the injured soldiers. Athelstan sobered and tensed a little, how else would a man react when reminded of a Norseman’s hand wrapped around his throat however weakly?

 

“Ragnar has always welcomed me amongst his people, Rollo has always preferred my death.”

 

“Night and day.”

 

Athelstan nodded but Aethelwulf didn’t leave so Athelstan began checking Rollo’s leg wounds, not flinching from the smell or the gore. He was more used to such things than he’d ever dreamed he would be. Rollo was watching both men closely with what would have been a sneer if he wasn’t so crippled by pain. Athelstan heard birds cry outside and smiled, directing the expression pointedly towards Rollo. They weren’t alone. Rollo stared back through narrowed eyes.

 

“And yet you still help him.”

 

Athelstan raised an eyebrow. “It is as the Lord commands, and your father is eager to see peace reached with the Norsemen.”

 

Aethelwulf nodded but he had sharp clever eyes, he did not view the Norsemen as a savage but simple threat as many in Wessex erroneously did. He had met Ragnar, he knew of the threat they could truly be. After a taut moment, he abruptly left the shelter, an ominous silence trailing in his wake. Rollo coughed and spat pointedly.

 

“Little shit.”

 

Athelstan didn’t correct him and rebandaged Rollo’s wounds, aware of how intently Rollo was watching him. He waited for Rollo to speak, knowing that he would eventually. First he heard a soft voice that no one else did and gentled his touch in response.

 

“King Horik agreed to your King’s terms?”

 

Athelstan finished the last bandage but didn’t step back. “Ragnar and Lagertha agreed, King Horik had little choice.”

 

“And he doesn’t know about your gift.”

 

Rollo sounded pleased about this, recognising the advantage for what it was. Athelstan’s smile hardened just a little. “He left me to die and told everyone in Kattegat that I had betrayed him.”

 

Athelstan didn't have to say anymore, of course Rollo would understood anger like that, he understood resentment and betrayal. Rollo had always seen less than Ragnar but every Norseman understood such things and since he had been humbled and spared, Rollo had begun seeing more and more. He was changing and seemed unafraid of this fact; at last he was striding forward in a manner that matched his brother.

 

“What do you think the gods say?”

 

Rollo's tone was abrupt, almost mocking, but there was something yearning present too. Athelstan smiled and he relaxed into giving himself over to the voices and sensations that had accompanied him since birth. He felt as though he was being held up, as though he was one of many, equally quiet, raw and refined, both many and one. It was always deeply humbling and reassuring in a way beyond measure. The gods were infrequently kind but since coming to terms with who it was that he heard, Athelstan had become better at listening to them and determining the purpose of their noise. He was glad to be their servant.

 

He sagged a little at last and his eyes brightened once more. “I was writing of my Christian God in King Ecbert’s castle until a breeze stirred my parchment. When I turned to the window, there was a raven watching me through a hole in the glass. We stared at each other before it flew away as suddenly as it had arrived.”

 

Rollo glowered. “That isn’t an answer, priest.”

 

“But it’s the truth.”

 

*

 

Athelstan could hear them talking. His mouth curved upwards as he rode towards the Norse encampment. He couldn't pick out individual voices but it was a familiar mess of noise that settled comfortingly around him like a blanket. His heart shuddered and he pressed a hand to his chest as though attempting to capture the ache. He heard other voices too. He nodded, his heart unfolding as he took a deep breath. Those voices were clearer here, of course they were.

 

Those on watch noticed him first and immediately ran to send word to Ragnar, Lagertha and King Horik. Athelstan smiled serenely. The voices were clamouring louder now, any tension he had held on his journey dropping away. There was a gentle skitter down his spine.

 

_I hear you, and I obey._

 

He knew he would be given strength and he knew he would be given the words he needed. Once, he would have cowered from such voices but he didn't anymore. Kattegat had caused that change, as had Wessex. Perhaps this was where he belonged, striding between both worlds. No, he knew that wasn't _quite_ right, he knew where he belonged.

 

Now it was the Norsemen who were loud. He lifted his head, watching as people fanned out to meet with him. He spied Floki and Torstein among them. There was Björn, so much older now and holding himself more comfortably than the child Athelstan had known and loved. King Horik was a dark smear at the edge of Athelstan's vision, a shadow to always be aware of, and there was Lagertha, bright and fierce and Ragnar who hung back, a slight smirk on his face that made something flare up brightly inside Athelstan. He hungrily drank in the people before him, the family that he had missed so much.

 

He glanced back towards Rollo, lying in the cart. Rollo was still in pain but he was coherent now and his strength was returning slowly. He still looked at Athelstan as though he wasn't completely sure of what he was seeing but he had continued to ask questions and he hadn’t attempted to kill Athelstan again. He truly was changing. He would fare better amongst his own people though, they both would.

 

Athelstan signalled for Rollo and the provisions to be taken from the cart and he called for any who wished to become mercenaries in Wessex and Mercia. Many men stepped forward; it would please Princess Kwenthrith to meet them. As King Aelle was freed, Ragnar approached Athelstan for a different reason. Athelstan’s expression became soft, he could feel Aethelwulf staring at him but he did not return the man's pointed gaze.

 

Ragnar asked and Athelstan replied, the metal arm-band around his wrist revealing his answer just as clearly. His blood was singing and the voices were as loudly triumphant as they had been when he had swung an axe among Norsemen and had inked the Lord's Word among Christians.

 

He did not explain anything to Aethelwulf because he knew that no matter what he said he would only be confirmed as a traitor to his people in Aethelwulf’s eyes. Aethelwulf could not be surprised though, he had always thought of Athelstan as a pagan. Athelstan did not ask for any message to be given to King Ecbert, though he was saddened at the thought of not seeing the king again. Like Ragnar, King Ecbert reached further than those around him and saw more.

 

_Please, Father. Watch over King Ecbert, he seeks glory for himself but he does not always reach for the sword first._

 

He talked silently to God as he slid easily from his horse’s back and walked at Ragnar’s side towards the others. He knew how he appeared, swathed in a priest's robes, a traitor, a Christian. But he also knew that some before him would see through that, there were some who knew exactly who he spoke for. So he smiled softly, straight-backed and calm as he faced the warrior horde. Athelstan didn't falter.

 

He felt a silent push between his shoulder-blades where no Norseman stood. He smiled at what only he could hear.

 

“Athelstan,” that was Lagertha, breaking the silence with a stark simple greeting.

 

Athelstan bowed his head to her, Lagertha now a jarl. His heart swelled at her achievements. Lagertha who fought as well as any man and who led better than most. He could foresee how strong her people would grow with her leading them, the gods loved Lagertha. The tiny smile at the corner of her mouth told him how pleased she was to see him.

 

“My lady.”

 

He addressed with her audible respect, which she returned by nodding to him as though addressing someone close to an equal. The Valkyries crooned to him softly, he could hear their wingbeats and the liquid slip of the ale that they carried. He could see Lagertha through their eyes, a personification of battle on all fronts.

 

Ragnar met his gaze, fire edging the vivid blue. Athelstan could see ravens circling Ragnar, he was a man blessed by Odin just as Rollo was. Now his eyes were raking Athelstan as though checking that every part of the priest still existed. Their gazes met for a long moment before Ragnar abruptly turned and led Athelstan to where food bubbled over a fire. Athelstan heard wings fluttering and ravens caw.

 

Lagertha and Björn joined them at the fireside, watching as Athelstan gratefully ate food so familiar to him. Everything was louder and clearer here with Ragnar and Lagertha close to him again. He now missed Aslaug even more painfully than usual, there was a space where she and her children should be, as there was where Gyda had once stood. But he would see Aslaug again and her children once he returned to Kattegat. Gyda was gone though, Athelstan's thoughts on Valhalla and Heaven were too pained and intermeshed to pull apart, at least for the moment.

 

King Horik was watching Athelstan, others were beginning to dismantle the encampment for their aims had been met and it was time to return across the sea but King Horik, his now-sole son at his side, watched with hard eyes. Athelstan remembered well what he had heard, what the voices had revealed to him. King Horik was a strong man and a good king, but he was not always a good man. Few men were. The shadows around him were deepening though, the same shadows that had once swallowed Jarl Haraldson.

 

“I didn’t betray you or him,” Athelstan murmured in old English between bites of stew, wondering with sudden pain how far King Horik's poison had spread.

 

“Of course you didn’t,” Lagertha replied plainly.

 

Athelstan smiled at her, his expression as warm as he could make it. He was very glad to see her again. Ragnar dropped a hand to Athelstan’s shoulder and squeezed, it was a grounding counterpoint to the sounds that were always with him, sounds that now sometimes had names.

 

“The gods are happy I’m returning with you,” he told them.

 

“But are you?” Ragnar asked pointedly.

 

Athelstan’s smile was vaguely enigmatic but it said a great deal to those that knew him as well as those that currently stood beside him. His heart was settling well beneath his breastbone, a song unfurling in his head. King Horik continued to stare.

 

*

 

Athelstan had been terrified of the voices he had heard when he was younger, growing up amongst monks who viewed such a gift as a curse. Father Cuthbert had counselled him well though and had often sent him out on missionary work. Athelstan had discovered that in the cool air of the countryside the voices became clearer and more individual, particularly when talking with hermits and those that looked towards pagan gods. What was God trying to say? Why was He punishing Athelstan?

 

Athelstan had learned Norse, liking how the words had felt in his mouth. He had prayed for answers, still sometimes so lost and unhappy, an ache inside of him that even every moment spent in God’s presence couldn’t cure. He had never stopped searching until one day his home had been sacked by Norseman and a savage warrior called Ragnar Lothbrok had saved his life.

 

In Kattegat the voices had become louder and more demanding and Lagertha had found him frozen and terrified on more than one occasion. She had sat with him until he had returned to movement and had then taken him to see the Seer. Athelstan had never met someone who could see the paths that lay ahead with such a vivid and unsettling combination of clarity and mystery. It wasn’t the Seer’s place to decide people’s fates; he simply spoke of what he saw. Somehow he was not a liar, he was not telling falsehoods for coin. It had made Athelstan’s heart tremble to hear his life laid out, the insights the Seer had.

 

“All I've ever hear is noise and pain and words that never hold together,” Athelstan had stated.

 

The Seer had tilted his head as though he had heard what Athelstan was not saying. “Why do you assume you are hearing only _one_ god?”

 

Shaken, Athelstan had paid more attention after that, he had stopped trying to shut the voices out. He had spoken to God and he had learned of the Norse pantheon, of all that they did and how the Norse people worshipped them. He had listened and had begun to realise who was speaking to him. It had helped him hear God more clearly too, there was a still quiet voice, waiting to be heard amongst the others. Athelstan had begun to see how each voice affected the world around him, it was undeniable, and he had begun to feel their touch too.

 

*

 

The journey to Kattegat felt both long and short. Lagertha ordered him next to her and Athelstan found peace at her side. He woke more than once to find Björn stood close by, a hand on his sword and his expression set firmly. Athelstan was being guarded in a casual but telling manner. Ragnar stood at the ship's prow, staring out into the storm as though waiting for the gods to clear a way through for him. Rollo was on another boat, apparently under Floki's malevolent care but Athelstan knew what plans lay beneath that distrust and fury. He knew that King Horik believed he held the upper hand but there were many paths ahead and for all King Horik's formidable will and knowledge of the gods, Ragnar Lothbrok saw many steps ahead before such ideas even dawned in others.

 

Athelstan saw ravens circling and said quiet prayers that Lagertha listened to, commenting on the gods he spoke of, needling him when his stories of them differed. He had missed her sharpness and warmth. She wrapped a fur around him and held his hand beneath it.

 

_Thank you._

 

Björn smirked at what he saw and at what he knew, Athelstan's gift was a family secret and Björn had kept it well. Gyda had always been excited about it, telling Athelstan that he was blessed and that the gods must have brought him to Kattegat for the understanding he'd find there. Gyda had been wise for one so young though Athelstan had always wished that the gods had seen fit to give him such help and understanding without causing a flood of bloodshed and pain in Northumberland first. But the gods had always chosen their own way, vivid, lusty and full-blooded. Lagertha had told him once that childbirth was consumed by pain and blood, so why should his rebirth be any different?

 

*

 

Princess Aslaug was waiting in the longhouse when Athelstan entered amongst a group of triumphant raiders. He walked slowly, watching as Lagertha accepted a drink from Aslaug. There were Ubbe and Hvikserk, they’d grown since he’d last seen them. Aslaug smiled as her two eldest sons clattered into Athelstan’s legs, babbling their news to him, asking why his beard was so small now. Athelstan pressed his hands to their faces and told them it was good to see them. He took a deep breath, the air tasted like salted meats, like Kattegat. He couldn’t truly explain it, just as he couldn’t always articulate the voices that spoke to him. But they weren’t painful anymore.

 

“You came back.”

 

Aslaug’s smile was wide and warm, an expression that was all-too-rare across her face. Athelstan nodded deeply, respectful towards royalty and towards someone that he counted as family. He told her so and accepted a rough pat on the back and cup of ale from Torstein. He watched as Aslaug revealed to Björn that the girl he cared about was now free from her life as a thrall. Athelstan thanked the gods for Aslaug’s kindness and for the blessing this would be for Björn and for his love.

 

King Horik entered the longhouse, Floki wasn’t with him but his presence wisped in King Horik’s wake. Floki was part of Ragnar’s plan but his hatred of Athelstan’s beliefs was real. Athelstan admired Floki’s rampant faith, his knowledge of the gods and his shipbuilding skills. He loved Helga, now Floki’s wife, and knew that she counted him as a friend. That would have to be enough for now, Floki would never accept the Christian God and so would never truly accept Athelstan; tolerance was all he could manage. Athelstan prayed for him regularly.

 

King Horik was watching him again so Athelstan inclined his head. “King Horik.”

 

It was a respectful but perfunctory greeting and King Horik knew it. He continued to watch as Athelstan was called to Aslaug’s side. Ragnar was sat on the floor with his sons; Aslaug beside him holding a baby that Athelstan knew was Ivar. He remembered the visions that he’d had of the child, of tears and pain, a river and a baby’s cries. Aslaug indicated for him to sit beside her, an honoured position. He did so and softened a hand against the baby’s skin. Aside from his legs, Ivar was healthy and he was loved. He would always have to fight though to be considered strong, though any son of Ragnar Lothbrok would be blessed with many kinds of strength.

 

“I’m glad to meet you at last, Ivar the Boneless,” Athelstan said softly, wiggling his fingers to make the baby laugh.

 

Aslaug looked pleased by his reaction and squeezed his wrist, leaving her hand there against his skin. It was a caress, almost as though she needed the contact. Athelstan understood that feeling well and turned his hand palm-up so that their fingers could intertwine. Ragnar glanced over, his expression heated and pleased.

 

“You see it?” Aslaug asked quietly, her eyes on the son in her arms.

 

Athelstan nodded, keeping his gaze on Ivar as well, his voice roughening just a little, the noises rushing to envelope him once more. “He will be strong and wise, a great leader of men.”

 

“He will spread an ox’s hide across the West and claim the land it covers,” Aslaug added.

 

There was more but neither of them spoke of it. Some things were clearer than others. Athelstan had heard many visions of death, of people he knew and those he didn’t, all that could lie ahead. Some of it set Athelstan's teeth on edge. One day, Ivar might avenge his father. Aslaug shifted Ivar into Athelstan’s arms and curled her own arm around him. Ivar had much time to grow, they all did, before the snakes came looking for Ragnar. And there were visions still to come, still to warp and weft. Athelstan folded his fingers around themselves, his knuckles turning white.

 

King Horik was still staring. Aslaug had clearly noticed because her expression was knowing and amused, as though Athelstan had put that look on her face in some way but Athelstan knew the truth. He brushed an arm against Aslaug, so glad to be close to her again. The Valkyries liked Aslaug too, they had loved her mother, the great shieldmaiden Brynhildr, and they loved Aslaug also. Aslaug didn't fight with sword and shield but she was a conqueror as impressive as her mother and father.

 

Ivar laughed, a sound that was a gift from the gods and Aslaug and Athelstan both knew it.

 

*

 

Athelstan lay with his head in Aslaug’s lap. He could feel King Horik's stare as the feast carried on around them. Aslaug’s hand was in Athelstan’s hair as she talked with her sons and kissed her husband. Athelstan felt warm and surrounded, it was a feeling that penetrated down to his bones and brought curls of Norse, English and Latin to his ears, pleased words, mocking words, the gods were clear tonight and Athelstan welcomed them more than ever.

 

He was cradling Sigurd Snake-in-the-eye in his arms. Most of the voices seemed content because Athelstan was back in Kattegat perhaps or because of the presence of Athelstan’s family. They had gone to Wessex and brought him back, he had made a choice that had pleased the gods.

 

He murmured prayers to God in Latin, thanking Him for his blessings, for how comfortable and well he felt. He could hear the Lord’s pleasure in some of the lullabies he’d heard Aslaug and other mothers sing to their children; he felt it now in Aslaug’s fingers in his hair.

 

_Thank you, Lord, thank you for this great happiness. I don’t deserve your blessings, I ask only that You guide my footsteps. Help me to keep my family safe._

 

Aslaug never minded when he prayed to the Christian God. Like Ragnar and Lagertha, she was vaguely amused by his dedication to such a strange singular deity but she never told him to stop. He shifted his prayers towards the Norse gods, half saying them to Sigurd, watching as the baby babbled and wriggled.

 

“You will learn as we all do,” Athelstan told the baby. “And you will pray better than I ever have.”

 

He had heard of who Sigurd might become, Óðr and Freyja whispered about him, about who he could marry and where he could rule. All of Ragnar’s sons had great destinies spread out before them, for them and their family to grasp. Was that why King Horik stared? He only had one son now; Ragnar had been blessed with five. Or did King Horik see Athelstan as a problem to eliminate? A dangerously different force or a Christian that he didn’t value or trust?

 

Aslaug stroked a finger across Sigurd’s downy head. “His line will be strong.”

 

Athelstan smiled up at her. “We will make it so.”

 

Óðr and Freyja agreed.

 

*

 

Athelstan spent the night in Lagertha’s bed. She left the longhouse, motioning to him from the doorway. Athelstan handed Sigurd back and walked to Lagertha’s side without hesitation. He knew that King Horik was still staring but he knew that Aslaug would guide Ragnar if the king's words became weapons. Ragnar was already wise but with Aslaug beside him, he was even wiser.

 

Her gift was so different to Athelstan’s. He heard what had been and what could be, she was a völva, she spoke and her words came true. It was a burden sometimes, Ivar's legs had been misshaped by her anger but like Athelstan, Aslaug had never known any different. Unlike Athelstan, she had learned how to harness her gift at a very young age. Athelstan had not been so blessed, not until he'd grown and reached Kattegat.

 

Now he knew that Aslaug smiled knowingly as Lagertha walked expectantly from the longhouse, Athelstan close behind her. King Horik might tell people that Lagertha was stealing what was once Ragnar's, that she was a force who was too close to Ragnar and that she should be stopped. He might determine that Lagertha was a good ally to cultivate. He might do many things. Athelstan clenched his teeth and shivered. Lagertha drew him into her bed.

 

She stripped off her clothing without shame. She was a feast for the eyes and Athelstan dropped to his knees to worship her. Lagertha deserved worship, she deserved as much greatness as Ragnar. Lagertha loved him still, as did Athelstan, but as Lagertha had said more than once, Ragnar was blessed enough. The times she and Athelstan had together like this were theirs alone.

 

She threaded her fingers into Athelstan's hair and held him as he pressed his face against her thighs, his mouth mapping out benedictions and praise. He moved to lap at the wet heat between her legs, to make Lagertha loud and triumphant. Noise howled around him and so did Lagertha.

 

She dragged him onto the pile of furs that smothered the generous pallet before wrapping her hand around his hard length and guiding him into her. Then she stretched out expectantly beneath him, her gaze still hazy with her own pleasure. Athelstan obediently provided her with more happiness and chased his own. Once they'd both crested, he withdrew and rested against her chest. Her sweat was a salty tear on his tongue. Something vital shifted and settled beneath his skin, it had been too long since he had felt that.

 

Lagertha rearranged him beside her so that they were mostly intertwined and together they hauled a fur or two over themselves. Athelstan murmured vespers quietly to himself. When he slept, he dreamed of a river again, there were voices he recognised in the air and in the water's sparkles. He saw Sigurd crawling and Ubbe fishing and there were Björn and his serving girl wrestling and smeared with mud, chasing their own happiness.

 

He woke to find Lagertha's hands exploring his chest, checking him for new scars perhaps, evidence of the life that he'd lived in Wessex. He had left his priest robes behind; they never had done him any good in Kattegat.

 

“At least two of King Horik's men looked through the slats,” Lagertha told him, sitting up and beginning to comb through her hair.

 

It was not unexpected. Lagertha turned her back in silent request and Athelstan forced himself upwards to demonstrate that he had not forgotten how to braid a Norse woman's hair. Gyda had made him work on hers most mornings, she had told him that it was important for him to learn and that it would help him when he was learning to weave. His weaving had eventually evolved from laughable to almost decent. He had missed weaving the fabric threads and twisting the hair of the women he loved into shapes they deemed suitable.

 

He kissed Lagertha's shoulder and finished the simple braid cleanly. Some things had changed since he had last seen her but some hadn't. He remembered what he'd heard and seen of her when he'd been in Wessex – bruises and pain, an unbowed figure, a growing boy, a shield that had never faltered. Lagertha had walked through storms, Heimdallr had long whispered in Athelstan's ear about her, his gold teeth flashing and his admiration clear. If any deserved such attention, it was Lagertha.

 

She knew that King Horik was planning her death, that the man she loved still wished for her to join him and his wife formally as a family. But Lagertha knew what Athelstan did too – they were a family already, no more changes were needed, and Lagertha had her own path to forge.

 

Lagertha bodily turned him and commented that it was good he hadn't been forced to shave his head again like an English priest. She combed through his hair unasked and created a braid at each side before tightly tying it all back again. She kissed his shoulder with a scrape of teeth and retrieved a pair of axes from under the pallet, presenting them to him with a small arch smile. Athelsan touched them reverently; he hadn't worn arms since his capture in Wessex, since he had believed that he was following the most vital of paths. It had been right for a while perhaps, a reminder of who he'd been and how much he could endure and how closely the gods were cradling him. It hadn't been enough though, not in the end.

 

Here though, he couldn't walk unarmed, not amongst those that would see him dead. He prayed gratitude for the weapons, he would ask Odin to guide his hands in battle, in protecting his family. He would ask Nanna for guidance in peaceful conquests. There was a hum running through his head and he bowed briefly, giving into the noise, his eyes shining. He was here and he was listening.

 

He dressed and slid the axes onto his belt.

 

*

 

In the longhouse, King Horik was sat close to Ragnar. Athelstan talked briefly with Björn who teased him for his tired eyes but dipped his head respectfully. Athelstan accepted the gesture and poured himself some mead. There was warm bread and hard cheese and Athelstan was hungry. He murmured a prayer and sat down beside Aslaug, offering to hold Ivar for her so that she could eat. Aslaug smiled and handed over her son, she and Athelstan both ate from his plate, Athelstan taking note of the whispers that surrounded them and that no one else heard.

 

“I saw the river again,” he murmured quietly to Aslaug.

 

She nodded. “It was beautiful.”

 

Ivar gurgled and Athelstan quietly sung hymns that seemed to soothe the baby. Aslaug smiled at them. Rollo and Siggy were notably absent, Rollo was still healing of course, unable yet to walk, and Siggy was tending to him. The burning must have worked on him because there was no talk of seeking out other healers. Athelstan thanked God and Eir and asked for Rollo to grow strong again, to heal completely because a man used to fighting on his feet would die if forced to live on his knees.

 

Eir was a sweet voice in his ear, never as loud as the others. Aslaug was wearing green, perhaps to gain Eir's favour. She touched Athelstan's shoulder. Ivar was staring up at him, fascinated by something. Perhaps Athelstan's eyes were gleaming again. Athelstan smiled down at the babe, took a breath and slipped further into the sounds that always pushed him onwards. Ivar giggled.

 

“There was worse things in this life than being boneless,” Athelstan told him, one hand gentling along Ivar's legs.

 

Aslaug held a cup of mead to Athelstan's lips and he might have allowed King Horik to see the glimmer of his eyes before he looked back down towards Ivar. Loki was laughing and so was Aslaug.

 

Later, Ragnar seated Athelstan next to him and tugged a hand through his hair, brushing a proprietorial kiss to Athelstan's forehead. King Horik was still watching and Lagertha was talking to Björn from beside Aslaug, an amused smile on her lips. Perhaps it looked as though Ragnar and Lagertha were fighting over Athelstan, perhaps they were, perhaps it would give King Horik another reason to confide in Floki who had never liked Athelstan anyway. Perhaps it would help or it wouldn't. Only the gods knew and they would show Athelstan the way.

 

Athelstan was sure of that, and of how right it felt to have axes on his belt once more, to braid Lagertha's hair and sit beside Ragnar, to weave with Siggy and spar with Björn. Even Floki's scornful gaze felt as though something missing had been returned again. Athelstan missed Wessex; he missed conversations with King Ecbert, the ink and parchment, the language, and how much he had learned from that room full of secrets. He still missed Lindisfarne too, the company of his brothers and Father Cuthbert’s wise steady countenance.

 

But here in Kattegat, here Athelstan was with his family.

 

If Athelstan’s eyes gleamed, it was likely that nobody noticed except the gods. Athelstan silently thanked them and God, watching the people who teemed through the room. He was still always searching for what he needed to do, for more of God and more of the gods, but he now also felt rooted, tendrils stretching out and seeking, voices whispering stories. He was aware of the tapestry of possibility and facts before him, and he knew how to weave.

 

Athelstan leaned into the sounds and into Ragnar. Ragnar secured a hand at the nape of Athelstan's neck and pulled him closer, Athelstan bent easily with the motion. Ragnar's voice was warm, full of a slow-charred satisfaction that rolled all the way through Athelstan. It was good to hear it again and Ragnar knew it. His words were an idle curiosity and so much more.

 

“And how is the river today?”

 

Athelstan's lips curled in a smile that troubled King Horik. The ravens were roosting and God's hand was still on Athelstan's shoulder, flanked by more voices than Athelstan could yet put names to but he was always learning and he was always listening.

 

“Behaving itself, for now.”

 

_-the end_


End file.
